


The Whereabouts of Cecil Palmer

by AmongTheStars394



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, these tags will probably fluctuate, this is set during & after Parade Day and Company Picnic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmongTheStars394/pseuds/AmongTheStars394
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The underground mission to find Cecil Palmer, by a band of ragged misfit teens, an unlikely intern, and that perfect scientist. Where exactly is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whereabouts of Cecil Palmer

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY ABOUT THE HORRIBLE TITLE.  
> Anyway, this is set around Parade Day and will go on from there. I don't have this entirely planned out yet, but I do have a vague direction of where it's going. (I'd love to hear your suggestions!)  
> Thanks to cecilspeaks.tumblr.com for the transcripts AND I DO NOT OWN NIGHT VALE. No copyright infringement is intended.  
> Enjoy! c:

The house that did not exist was surprisingly cold.

Cold in a subtle, numbing way, the kind that mildly aggravated you, not overwhelm you.

Carlos hadn’t found any sort of doors, and the windows-well, they seemed false. As if they were only there for novelty and just being there, not for actually showing outside. He really wished there was some sort of heating system, but were nonexistent houses allowed to have that?

He wondered where his team of scientists had trotted off to, because the absence of doors was making him slightly…nauseous. It had been days…

There were a number of books and small stools and coffee tables everywhere. The hardwood floors were maple, and there didn’t seem to be any rugs, or carpeting, nor televisions or sofas.

He had found a radio, a small polished thing that played the local radio stations (and Cecil’s smooth, sonorous voice; he had never regretted dating Cecil once, unlike his past boyfriends) , but always interspersed with random bursts of static in which somebody said something along of the lines of “Smiling God” was heard. Carlos hadn’t any luck in trying to fix it.

He did have luck in finding a kitchen. There was a half-gallon of milk, carrots, and Parmesan cheese in the fridge, and some peaches, apples, and oranges on the table. And he’d found leftover pizza and frozen quesadillas and refried beans in the freezer.  It was enough sustenance to last him for a little while, he guessed.

But not enough, because the doors were gone. Rachelle had always been somewhat fickle and so had the others (but Rachelle especially so) but nothing this bad…

Carlos was cold, and he was bored.  That perhaps was not the best of combinations.

There wasn’t much for a cold bored man to do in a sparse and nonexistent house, so he absentmindedly grabbed an apple and planted himself in one of the small stools by the kitchen table, with the radio on the table, set to Night Vale Community Radio.

 

> _I’ve got guests in my studio. I don’t know how they undid my secret barricade made of cardboard signs that said “KEEP OUT!” and “SECRET ROOM!” in all caps with an exclamation point, but it’s my program director, Lauren, and some man I’ve never seen bef–_

Well then. Carlos was not sure whether he should be concerned, but he felt a vague sort of unease simmer in his chest. He swallowed, sinking his teeth into apple and curious.

But no, I  _have_  seen him before! Where have I seen you before?

 

> _They do not look happy, Night Vale. Lauren and the stranger are smiling widely, their teeth white, lips pink, their eyes full but tight, deep dimples making their tiny noses into parenthetical asides, **they are smiling** , but they look very unhappy._

Carlos tentatively swallowed his bit of apple, his hands shaking, the words reverberating from the radio suddenly muted. He listened with care, but he listened with trepidation.

 

> _Perhaps it is, uhh, time to sign off for the day. Um, I am sure to speak to you again very soon, listeners._
> 
> _Stay tuned next for the gentle sounds of forgiveness, and a lilting melody of wounds healing, and until next time, goodnight, Night Vale–_
> 
> _Hey! Hey! What are you– Ge–_

Carlos let his apple fall to the floor and suddenly it tasted awfully sour. He perked up in his chair, trying not to retch from apple juices in his mouth. His hands shook.

They had Cecil. StrexCorp had Cecil.

They had Cecil, and suddenly they no longer seemed like a vague and distant yet menacing organization. Suddenly they had done something, something that made Carlos’ head throb with red, hot flashes of anger.

How dare them.

How _dare_ they lay a finger on Cecil, _his_ Cecil, his darling Cecil? How dare they take Cecil away and silence him and do-and do-

What would they do to him…?

Carlos stood up as if in a trance.  And all of a sudden, he just _knew_ what he had to do.


End file.
